Dance With The Devil
by Brigadier-Erin-Lightning
Summary: A serial killer infects Sherlock with a demonic disease. With a dark new power rising inside of him, will the world's greatest detective be able to control the bloodlust of the monster he is becoming, or will it destroy him and all those he holds dear?
1. Prologue

**Dance With The Devil  
><strong>

**A Sherlock Fanfiction By Brigadier Erin Lightning**

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<br>**

* * *

><p>The moment seems almost too ethereal to be true.<p>

One minute, Sherlock comes skidding around the corner after the suspect he and his colleague have been chasing for the last month and a half, then all of a sudden the man is falling on him from above, a shadow blocking out the moon's light. White-hot searing pain as something digs deep into Sherlock's shoulder. His knees buckle, his eyes fog. His hand reaches out to steady himself, but instead he feels the press of cool, rough stone against his back, the other man's arms on either side of him holding him up. Hot breath on the nape of his neck...Everything swims - the equations, the maps, the deductions, all a blur. Somewhere deep in his mind he feels the tantalizing release of reason, a detachment from both physical and mental. Pleasure rockets through him, shaking his very essence straight to the bone. Then more pain, like being burned alive from the inside out. He hears the world as if from within a tunnel - John's distant voice, the hiss of the man entrapping him as the pain dissipates and Sherlock feels rather than hears the words echo in his mind.

"You're in my world now, detective."

Weariness overtakes him. He fights to stay conscious, but something in the tediousness of the action itself tells him it is futile. The shape in front of him shifts and is suddenly gone as though it had never been there to begin with. Holmes staggers. Out of the corner of his eye he sees his faithful companion, ex-army doctor John Watson, turning into the alleyway. He sees the sandy-haired man's lips move, but doesn't hear the words; sees the panicked eyes, but in a myriad of ocean blue irises; hands reach out and Sherlock feels his own fingers start to stretch, his leg twinge in the middle of a step, and then he is falling and it all fades into blackness.

And in the cradle of darkness that is his respite, he lets go.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> _Hey there everyone! Just a few quick things for you, the first of which being, yes, I apologize for it being short, but it's a bloody prologue, what did you expect? If you're salivating over these four paragraphs, go visit my other Sherlock stories - Dragonlock and Burn Out Bright - until I get the next chapter up. Or go out into the real world and live your real life - kick a ball around or something or go make an archenemy or two.__ I update fairly quickly, so you should expect the next chapter of Dance with the Devil tomorrow (Friday) evening._

_Next - I pride myself on tasteful slash. Expect about as much from the pairing here as you get in the television show. So if Johnlock is not your thing, fear not and read on; and if it is, don't worry, I'll still have some warm and fuzzies for you lot as well._

_Lastly, yes, the idea behind this story sounds rather cracky, but let me explain - I really have been wanting to do a story where the psychopath in Sherlock's personality is at war with the sociopath that is his better self. What if his darker nature threatened to make him into the very thing he fears and loathes? Well, clearly the man himself is quite chivalrous...the disease is merely a catalyst to what could be. Be excited. The world's greatest (and only) consulting detective is about to face his worst enemy - himself._


	2. Chapter I

**Dance With The Devil  
><strong>

**A Sherlock Fanfiction By Brigadier Erin Lightning**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter I<strong>

_Tremble for yourself, my man, you know that you have seen this all before  
>Tremble Little Lion Man, you'll never settle any of your scores<br>Your grace is wasted in your face, your boldness stands alone among the wreck  
>Now learn from your mother or else spend your days biting your own neck<em>

_But it was not your fault but mine_  
><em>And it was your heart on the line<em>  
><em>I really fucked it up this time<em>  
><em>Didn't I, my dear?"<em>

-Mumford & Sons "Little Lion Man"_  
><em>

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes considers himself a man of reason and sound mind - well, sound enough to get the work done, and that is what matters.<p>

So when his eyes finally open again, the very first task he puts before himself is deducing the outcome of that strange ordeal in the alley that, upon reflection, seems little more than a bad dream. First, the obvious. He finds himself alone and for a single second feels the utterly confounding twinge of disappointment that John is nowhere to be found - hadn't he been worried? Nonsense. He shakes this frivolous emotion away and moves on to observe through clearing vision the warm sheets, the familiar scent of the bed beneath him, his own room in its constant state of organized chaos. All seems well with his environment, so he moves onto himself. He stretches his fingers, mentally counting digits and limbs as he progresses upward - stopping just long enough to note a stinging sensation in his right arm - his hands feeling the bare skin of his chest, his shoulder...pausing on the gauze stretched taut over a portion of his neck.

A warm flush passes through him. He blinks. Of course. It all comes back to him. The shadow, the chase, the...but what of the wound? Curiosity tickles the corners of his mind. With his free hand upon the bedpost, he rises to his feet, pushing through the wave of dizziness that sweeps over him as he rights himself. He moves gingerly over to the mirror that sits atop his chest of drawers directly across the room. The image reflected back at him surprises the typically calm and callous detective. His skin gleams with a ghostly pallor - he has always been pale, yes, but now he seems almost the color of paper, the color, he thinks morbidly, of a corpse. His eyes, too, seem more dead than alive, milky silver pools looking back at him. And there, on his shoulder, the gauze...the wound...but what wound? he wonders. What had that man - that creature - done to him? His fingertips brush the edge of the surgical tape, starting to lift the edge...

"Some bite," John Watson appears in the doorway. "I would say you had a row with some sort of big dog, if I hadn't seen the man myself."

Sherlock's mouth quirks up in a smirk. "Perhaps it was a hound?"

John can't resist a smile, but his voice turns scolding and he adds quickly, "You should be in bed. Resting."

Sherlock pauses to cast his eyes over the doctor. He ignores his friend's concern and instead disbelief swims in his eyes. He replies, sarcastically, "Bitten? Come off it."

"We did give you a rabies shot, just in case," John shrugs, though he seems uneasy. Ah, so that explained the stinging...Sherlock's eyes drift downward, catch on the tiny pinprick from the needle. But something bothers him about what Watson has said.

"We?" he probes, his brows knitting. His mind leaps to work piecing together the puzzle. True, John couldn't have carried him all the way back here alone, cab or not. So which was it then - Mycroft or Lestrade? It couldn't have been Mycroft - he would have stuck around just to have his jollies over his younger brother's injuries.

"It was luck that Lestrade showed up when he did." Right on the mark.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, then settles their pinpointed gaze on John in such a way to indicate that he disapproves of this plan of action. He hates being indebted to the Inspector, for anything. "Yes, late as always," comes his scathing remark.

John's tongue flicks across his lips - a nervous tick of his. "Honestly, I don't see why you're so upset. You should just count yourself fortunate that I respect you enough not to drag you to a hospital - where you should have gone," he emphasizes the last part, trying to make a point, but only drawing a childish huff of irritation from his colleague. "He took quite a chunk out of your shoulder, you know." His voice goes quiet, barely a whisper. "Any closer to your jugular and things would have gone very badly for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock quirks his brow, disbelievingly; the doctor shrugs. "See for yourself."

Sherlock tenderly pulls the gauze from his neck, expecting...well, expecting what? A crazed man's teeth imprinted on gnarled flesh? A dog's gaping fang marks? He isn't quite sure what he is supposed to believe is there - he feels no pain - and then he realizes why. A pang of anger wells in his breast. "Oh, real mature, John. Ha-ha. " He pulls the rest of the tape off, noting as he does so that it has been colored crimson on the inside and that whatever has been used to color it sticks lightly to his skin, almost like dried blood would stick to a real wound. "Nice touch with the fake blood." He tosses the dressing aside with disgust and runs his fingers over the smooth, unmarred skin at his neckline. "Tell me then, who put you up to this - Lestrade? My meddling brother?" But as he finally turns his gaze back to Watson, he becomes ill at ease.

Not much scares the doctor, this Sherlock knows. They have both been in many life-threatening situations and, when presented with imminent danger, Watson at best becomes stoic and calculated, at worst simply freezes up; but never has Sherlock seem him shrink from a threat. It makes him an excellent traveling companion on missions of the gravest import - as well as a deadly sharpshooter if the situation calls for it. But now Sherlock sees true fear in his eyes. John hasn't moved, but his body has gone stiller than a statue's. His face has drained of color. His eyes are wide and, when he finally find the words, his voice is a breathy stutter, as though all of the air has been knocked out of him. "It-it wasn't me - the wound was there, just this morning - two big bite marks -" he steps forward and his fingertips press against two points on Sherlock's neck. "There."

Pain surges through Sherlock's body at the touch, an all-encompassing sort of pain that burns through bone, muscle, tissue. It brings tears to his eyes and makes him grit his teeth. More anger. He swats John's hand away viciously, knocking the army doctor backwards and into the table lamp, sending it reeling over the edge of the bedstand with a resounding crash. Their eyes meet - Sherlock's full of fury, John's hurt and frightened. That look - John's look - infuriates the great detective. It is the same look the Yard gives him when they call Sherlock a freak, a monster - sometimes worse. And it invokes a great sadness in him to see that look from the one man who has never thought those things of him.

"John, I..." he starts. He hadn't meant to use such force, had barely been conscious of it. The apology is on his lips, but he can't find the words. He feels like a stranger in his own body - that strength hadn't been his own. '_There's a logical explanation for all of this_.' Of course!

"A reason. There has to be a reason to this. Something I'm missing," Sherlock starts to pace, speaking aloud, hurriedly. "I just need to think."

The room is dark now. Too dark. The last rays of the sun's light brush against the curtain, casting a dim sepia tone over the room. John, the man of action as ever, stares at his friend for but a second longer, then stands and leaves the room. Sherlock is still pacing when the doctor returns moments later with a hand-broom and a dustpan. John sweeps up the remains of the lamp, an old antique with a stretched canvas shade - he had never really liked it anyway, he admits to himself - and brushes the pieces into the trash. He chances a glance back at his friend, only to see Sherlock's face scrunched with perplextion and, at the same time, winces with pain as one of the glass shards of the bulb digs into his finger.

Sherlock pays little attention. 'Bitten, no bite mark - symptoms: fever, nausea, pain...' Then the word flashes in his mind, a word that sounds right, a word full of power: 'Vampire.' He shakes his head. 'Foolish notion for a foolish man,' he chides himself. 'They don't exist. It's fantasy, it's myth - inconclusive..." He turns his train of thought away from such ridiculous notions. 'It could have been some sort of poison, some drug, intravenously injected in my neck - yes, that makes far more sense.' He returns to the mirror and examines his neckline again, looking for any trace of an injection. He barely notices how dark the room has become.

"Sherlock," John says, trying to keep his voice soft. "Should I bring in another lamp?"

To his astonishment, Sherlock finds nothing - no mark, no evidence, no injection site. He waves a hand absently at John as the wheels begin to turn again in his mind. "No, just draw back the curtains; that will do for now." Watson nods and moves to the window.

Everything that comes next happens much too fast for the ex army doctor to see, though it feels like an eternity to his companion. As the curtains are pulled back, the sunset blazes through the windows, directly onto the pacing detective. A wave of intense heat and even more intense pain - like being dropped into a bonfire. Sherlock lets out a cry and dives for the ground, for the bed, throwing himself under its four-postered frame and into the darkness and the comfort it offers. The doctor cries his name in panic. "Close it!" Sherlock's voice is shrill. "John, close the curtains!" John throws the shades back into place, then fall to his knees beside the bed.

'Vampire,' Sherlock's mind snarls again. It can't possibly be. But how his skin burns! He doesn't have to touch his arms to know that the pale skin is puckered with unsightly burn marks. He can feel them, each and every one. He grits his teeth. This doesn't make any sense - it isn't logical; he's not even sure it's really happening!

"Sherlock," John's voice, gently coaxing from just beyond the edge of the bed. He can't possibly understand - but he remains unfailingly loyal. "You're sick. You need to come out from there and rest."

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but then a darker tone fills his voice and he asks, bluntly, "John. I want your opinion. What is this disease - what is wrong with me?"

John blinks, unsure of how to respond. He is a good doctor, one of the best in Sherlock's mind, but now the detective can see the slight turn and tilt of the head. "I think..." John says, hesitantly, "You were bitten, but no bite mark remains. You can't go in sunlight. Your skin is pallid, you have all the symptoms of fever, but your body is cold to the touch..." He pauses. John Watson has never been daft - really daft, like everyone else Sherlock seems to meet - and this is exactly why Sherlock cherishes him so. Now Sherlock can tell from his eyes that he has reached the same conclusion that the detective has. Or at least is playing with the idea. He looks about to say it, but must have thought better of it, as his answer is, "I think something strange is certainly happening."

Sherlock is about to reply crossly when suddenly his vision seems to narrow. He sees it - a tiny crimson droplet - as it slides from John's fingertip and falls to the carpet. Desire rushes through him, rich and full and like he has never before experienced. Lust, hunger, greed - all these human emotions Sherlock Holmes has learned to hide away. How he wants to lunge at Watson now, to pin him down, to sink his teeth into that calloused but inviting skin, to taste the smooth...Fear fills his eyes. He fights to control these new urges, terrified by their intensity but at the same time profoundly curious about them. 'Vampire!' he accosts himself.

"John," he says, calmly. "You're hurt."

"Oh, the lamp, yes."

Sherlock curses quietly. He has gone days without food or water before, steeled himself against the necessity of hunger and the pangs of need, but this new hunger is more real than any he has ever felt. It can not be denied. He has to get out. He knows, even if nothing else makes sense, that John is in terrible danger here with him. A plan comes to mind. He will simply turn to science to find the answers he needs. He will beat this thing - he has to.

The detective pulls himself from beneath the bed, pushing aside John's hand as he offers it. "Th-the lab," Sherlock says, shakily, as he hastens to grab his coat from the rack at the far end of the room, trying not to look at Watson. "I have to go to the lab."

"Let me get my jacket," Watson replies. He knows there is no sense in trying to talk Sherlock out of going, despite how sick he might be.

"No," Sherlock responds. Dear John. Unfailing John. "Wait for me here. I can't..." But the blood. He can see the last film of it against the closing wound. A sharp pinpoint of pain on his lower lip. His tongue sneaks out to run across it. The sultry taste of iron...he savors it, but is pulled back to the moment by John's frightened gasp. Whirling around to face the mirror, the detective nearly jumps out of his skin to find the visage of a monster staring back at him. Fangs jut from where his canines had just been, razor-sharp and stained with his own blood. Luminous silver eyes gaze back, their pupils narrowed to slits, their hunger evident. The fangs, coupled with the soft bruise-colored stains of burns running like patchwork across his skin, and now Sherlock Holmes can't even recognize himself anymore.

'Vampire.' There is no denying it.

He casts one last look at Watson, haunted by the terror in his eyes, and then is out the door before the other man even has time to blink.


	3. Chapter II

**Dance With Devil**  
><strong>A fanfiction by Brigadier Erin Lightning<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter II<strong>

_And I will find the enemy within_  
><em>Cause I can feel it crawl beneath my skin"<em>

- Breaking Benjamin "Dear Agony"

* * *

><p>Sherlock stumbles through the darkened street, inadvertently averting his eyes from anyone who just so happens to glance his direction. His coat collar is pulled up against his cheekbones and buttoned tight, the familiar blue scarf wrapped around his neck; all in all, the effect of the outfit hides the majority of his skin, leaving only one small scar from his earlier burns poking out from the edge of the collar. But his mind is far from thoughts of others or of his dress.<p>

"When you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," he whispers under his breath, ducking from shadow to shadow down the darkening street. In the distance he can see Barts rising up, an imposing shadow against the last violet hues of the fallen sun. His silver eyes gleam. He has not yet ruled out all of the possibilities; he has not yet confirmed that he is indeed some supernatural monster, cursed as fairy tales said to live in darkness eternal, feeding off of the life of innocent maidens and dying some thousand years from now a death wrought by some brave soldier of fortune. The thought makes him laugh. Insane. The whole thing is insane. He will disprove himself; disprove the great Sherlock Holmes' presumptions and find some logical conclusion. But for that he requires…

'Are you at Barts? If so, open employee door. If not, disclose key location - SH'. He presses "SEND" on his flip-phone and, not waiting for a response, strides right up to the side door of the hospital. The phone buzzes in his pocket only a second later and his slender fingers reach down and withdraw it. Good Molly, always so expedient. "On my way" reads the reply. He slips it back in his pocket and rests his back against the cold brick wall. He thinks of John. Or rather, tries to not think of John and fails miserably. He can't shake the thought of that tortured expression on his face; of his fear…Sherlock feels a craving deep within him. He wishes he had a pack of cigarettes. A whole carton. Or maybe something stronger…like….like…

….like blood.

The employee door gives a metallic click and slides open. Despite the late hour, the Molly that steps out looks fresh and bright, as though she has just put on her makeup and readied herself for the day. Youthful Molly, so innocent, so fragile. A dark voice in the back of his mind suddenly lusts for her, longs to taste her…her scent is intoxicating. He has never loathed himself so much as he does now.

"Good evening, Sher-" Molly starts, but Sherlock cuts in sharply. "Molly, do me a favor and return home at once. Leave the key, I'll lock the labs when I've finished for the night."

"But I-" Molly tries to protest, but again Sherlock won't let her get a word in edgewise. "No time," he says, his eyes suddenly transfixed on her carotid. He can almost see the pulse of her blood. Quickly, he adds, "It's dangerous here. You need to leave now."

Molly looks him in the eyes. He sees something change in her expression. Alarm. Fear. Just like John. But also sadness, care. "Sherlock, is everything all right? You look….not well." Oh, Molly, Molly the bleeding heart! And that, thinks the cruel voice in Sherlock's mind, is exactly what she will do - bleed - if she does not get out of here now. Because that lust is growing within him and turning into real, physical pain.

A hint of strained desperation touches his generally cool voice. "Do you trust me?" he asks, gripping her shoulders and meeting her gaze. Her warmth permeates every cell of his body. Slowly, Molly nods. "Then go. Now. And don't come back tomorrow. Call in sick. Just in case." And with that, he slips his hand into her pocket faster than she can see and withdraws her pass card and keys, then pushes past her and into the closing doors, leaving the confused mortician standing on the step of her work, blinking and wondering if anything has ever been, or will ever be, as strange as this moment.

"Oh-okay," Molly utters meekly as the door slams shut behind him. She hesitates, but shakes her head and, still perplexed, turns and buttons up her coat. It will be a cold night.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock's arm slides across the desk, sending microscope, slides, research logs – everything – crashing to the ground. His hand clutches his head. He sees only red, feels only the pulsing of his heart as it hammers against his chest. His breathing comes rapidly, much too rapidly, as he slides down the cabinets to lie on the floor. Through his fingers, he looks down at his skin, watches with horror and fascination as it stretches tight over the shrinking, hardening veins across his arms, his legs – and, as he unbuttons his shirt to look, his chest as well.

Impossible, he thinks.

He has seen the slide. After leaving Molly, he came straight to the lab, removed his long coat, and took a sample. But what he had seen could not be logically - or physically for that matter - possible. Sliding his sample under the scope, he had expected to see some new kind of bacteria, maybe some virus or culture growing in his cells. Instead, he had watched as the edges of the cells that comprised his blood seemed to evaporate inwards, almost as if his mutinous cells were eating one another - white and red indiscriminately - until the entire sample had vanished. But that made no sense. So perhaps the problem was in the plasma, he had thought to himself, feeling a sense of pride that he had already come one step closer to understanding. Mere moments later, he had drawn another sample and placed it into a centrifuge to separate the plasma out when the pain had started – a pain like needles piercing every inch of his body; a craving that consumed his mind and made him see only red. This time, he had placed a plasma sample on the scope and zoomed in as far in as the scope would allow him to, hoping to see something – anything. And to his utter astonishment, he found that the liquid he was looking at was no longer plasma; instead, his blood was becoming something...else - a synthesized combination of cell and platelet, from which all nutrients had been stripped and consumed. It was as though his body was turning his blood into a super-chemical bent only on his preservation and leeching off of itself for its own maintenance. But no disease could cause something like this.

"What's happening to me?" Sherlock asks no one in particular. He clutches at his heart with his free hand. The erratic pulsing is getting worse – one minute it is beating too fast, the next it seems to barely pump at all. He tries to force himself to his feet, but they won't hold and he falls back to the ground. He feels his breath catching in his throat; it is getting harder and harder to draw his next and he is beginning to wonder if each breath will be his last. The great Sherlock Holmes feels something he has never felt before: helplessness. He wonders if this then is what death feels like.

The microscope lies only a few feet away, the pieces of slides scattered around it. 'John,' Sherlock thinks, desperately. He can't leave John. Not like this. His hands ball into fists. He presses them to the ground and pulls himself forward with renewed vigor. He won't give up yet. There is something he i s missing – some pivotal thing. He would take more samples. He would find the cause.

He reaches forward. A voice, unspoken, echoes in his mind. _"You are dying."_

"I had come to that conclusion, yes," Sherlock snaps back. This is no time to be second-guessing himself, if that's what this voice is, but he senses somehow that it is not. This voice is foreign. But familiar.

_"Don't worry. You're not talking to yourself,"_ the voice replies. _"But you are making this a lot more difficult than it needs to be. Let go."_

"No," Sherlock thinks fiercely back. The sharp sting of glass cuts into his flesh and he looked down only to find shards of glass embedded deeply in his palms, the cuts completely devoid of blood where it should be flowing profusely. 'It makes no sense,' he keeps repeating to himself. 'It makes no…'

_"Does it have to?"_ asks a voice - the same voice - almost antagonistically. _"I'm curious to see how the famed consulting detective deals with his newfound powers. You've done a fine mess so far, after all."_

Sherlock scowls so hard that his fang punctures his lip again. But this time, he can't taste any iron on the wound. His heart is in a fit. He collapses, fighting just to stay awake, as his vision swims in and out. His hand reaches out for the microscope. It is almost in his grasp. Somewhere far off he hears the echoes of footsteps on tile. It is almost…

Shoes. A pair of expensive Louis Vuitton, waxed alligator leather shoes. Men's shoes. Sherlock can't lift his head to see more of the man. But he doesn't need to. With a firm kick, the shoes thrust the microscope far from his reach. He wants to cry out, wants to fight, wills himself to…to…anything, but instead he chokes out but one question: "What am I?" He has to know. Has to know if he has figured it out, improbable as it may be. In his final moment, there is nothing more important.

"You already know," the voice affirms coldly, aloud.

Sherlock's consciousness is slipping. His heart beats its final beat. His lungs seize and he gives one last shuddering breath. His vision turns to darkness. And in that darkness, all he can think of is John. He sees him, sees every adventure they have ever had, all that strength and courage in the face of adversity. He sees his smile. But when John looks at him, it isn't John's voice that speaks to him, but the haunting whisper of the man who stands over him, triumphant in the detective's demise.

"You are what I made you."


	4. Chapter III

**Dance With The Devil  
><strong>

**A Sherlock Fanfiction By Brigadier Erin Lightning**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter III<strong>

_"Come away little lass come away to the water,  
>To the ones that are waiting only for you.<br>Come away little lass come away to the water,  
>Away from the light you that you always knew..."<em>

- Maroon 5 "_Come Away To The Water_"_  
><em>

* * *

><p>"Anything yet? Have you found him?" the desperate voice of John Watson asks.<p>

Police lights reflect against newfallen snow. Gregory Lestrade stands, his silhouette dark against the light of the rising sun, hands grasping tight a piping hot mug of coffee. His eyes are focused on the building that had been Bart's and now lay as a skeleton of scorched rubble, still steaming from the last few jets of the firefighter's hoses. Officers rush in and out, carrying valuable equipment, escorting out the last few workers and patients who had been on its upper floors. Without turning his head, he simply shakes it sadly, a tired sigh escaping him.

John's heart catches in his throat. The last eight hours are a blur in his mind – worrying, waiting by the window, hoping Sherlock would come home, finally calling his phone only to get no answer as usual, falling asleep in the armchair from exhaustion, waking to the buzzing of his cellphone in the early hours of the morning only to hear Lestrade's voice on the other end of the line: "There's been an accident." Throwing on his coat, hailing a cab, calling Sherlock again just in case to find his phone off - all the while feeling as though he were somehow outside of his body, watching himself, watching John Watson teeter on the edge of some very great precipice, waiting for the inevitable to plunge him over the edge. _Please_ - he had thought, over and over again like a mantra – _Please, just don't be dead_.

With unsteady hands, he pushes past Lestrade and heads for the front of the building. Lestrade opens his mouth to object, but the detective has known the ex-army doctor long enough by now to know it won't even given John pause. So instead he follows after, muttering "He's with me," to anyone who bothers to trouble him.

John picks his way in between blackened support beams, cracked concrete and sparking electrical wires. The lab's door has been torn from its hinges but is nowhere in sight. Bright yellow caution tape stretches across the doorway. John steps over it and comes up short, drawing a sharp breath. The lab is a wreck. Melted microscopes and shattered glass litter the floor. Metal chairs, or pieces of them, lie askew here and there. Crumbling ash – once medical journals, science books, and records – rests across everything like a thin layer of black snow.

From across the room, two familiar officers look up. The first - a young and dark-skinned woman - approaches, her face crinkling into a expression of disgust at Watson's appearance. "I see you brought his pet then," she says coarsely to Lestrade, who returns a look that clearly says "Drop it". Sally Donovan shrugs it off. "Right, well, as you can see, it's a bloody nightmare down here. We know that this is the room the fire started in, but we haven't found how yet. And as for," and here her words grow almost venomous, ""_you-know-who"_ – _if_ he was here, he isn't now."

John relaxes a little. She means Sherlock. He wasn't here. He wasn't-

The other officer - a thin man in standard-issue blue sterilized garb – has been ignoring the interruption and working with a UV light, presumably searching the premises for traces of chemicals – either what started the fire or any other potential clues. But now he looks up at them. "I think you'll want to see this," Anderson says in his nasally tone. Unlike his openly hostile partner, he prefers avoidance to confrontation in most matters. But this time, he is puffed up with pride because he has succeeded where everyone else has heretofore failed. As the officers and John gather around him, he sweeps at a corner of the floor with his hand brush, clearing the ash from what is reacting under the light. Sally focuses her flashlight on the spot. John gasps. He kneels beside Anderson, fingers reaching out.

Tiny specks of red color what is left of the linoleum.

"Sherlock…." John whispers. _Please, just don't be dead_.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_Drip. Drip. Drip_. The sound of water dripping is what wakes him, and something more – the overpowering scent of sea salt, the slick feel of stone against his bare shoulders, the crash of the waves in the distance, the scuttling of a crab's claws in sand. A bitter cold has sunk into his limbs, but it is not from the tide that soaks his trousers – in fact, the water feels warm, inviting almost. His fingers flex, grasping grainy fistfuls of sand and letting it slip through them.

It is a long time before Sherlock Holmes opens his eyes and when he does the sensation is like a blind man seeing for the very first time. And so much more than that.

Imagine, if you will, seeing the world around you as if staring into Vincent Van Gogh's or Georges Seurat's paintings – each and every object both a whole and a myriad of tiny elements of color and light simultaneously. Now add in Leonardo Da Vinci's eye for mechanics – only imagine seeing the mechanics of every single creature around you, no matter how small – the workings of a butterfly's wings, the stroking of a fishes' fins, the lift and fall of a crab's legs as it maneuvers itself across the cavern's floor – in exquisite detail, inside and out, from the tautening of muscles deep within it to the outward movement itself all at once. Such is the world that the great detective wakes to, a world that is both awe-inspiring and terribly daunting at the same time.

He lies on his back in a small cavern comprised of smooth, worn stone, fairly lumient in the pitch of the cavern. Beneath him, chalky sand through which run streams of seawater pushed in by the tide. The stones gleam with tiny water droplets and the first touches of frost sparkle as gemstones would from the cavern's walls; each grain of sand beneath him is a shard of reflective glass showing him a man with wild, wet brunette locks lying amidst swirls of seafoam green and cerulean blue. Too pale skin that looks as if someone has chiseled it from stone – perhaps even the very stone that comprises his current resting place. Eyes the color of blood stare back at him. Yet he doesn't feel afraid. Fascinated, yes.

Somewhere not too far away, he hears the distinct crackling of a fire being kindled, smells the faint odor of smoke drifting from drywood. "John?" Sherlock calls. He gingerly pushes himself into a sitting position. He expects pain - though he can't quite remember why - but there isn't any. He turns his head to the cave mouth, to the warm white light that reflects from its gaping maw, his eyes squinting against its brightness. Come to think of it, he can't remember anything before waking up here. Perhaps John knows.

But as he emerges from the darkness onto the moonlit shore, he sees to his disappointment that it is not Watson tending the flames, but instead a tall, lean wraith of a man who prods at the kindling absently. Sherlock's mind goes to work effortlessly. The posture of a ruler or a man of power – straight-backed, shoulders set, head held aloft. Expensive coat, designer label – a man of money – but not only that, but it looks to be a custom-make. A man of great fortune then. From the calculating stare he is leveling at the fire and the way his hands look as if they'd never seen a day of hard labor, Sherlock infers that he must be a businessman, most likely the son of a prominent family.

"Good, you're awake," the man greets him, turning crimson eyes on his guest as he slicks back short golden bangs. His voice is like spiced honey – sweet and friendly, but with something a tinge darker intermingled. Alarm bells go off in Sherlock's mind. The man stands and Sherlock takes in his size – a height roughly equivalent of his own, though Sherlock has a slightly more muscular build and easily has the weight advantage.

The man extends his hand. "Sebastian Laurent," he offers in the curt, formal manner of one accustomed to affairs of state or business. "And you, of course, need not introduce yourself. There's not an educated man in this day and age who doesn't follow the exploits of the "great" Sherlock Holmes in the daily papers."

"I certainly don't," Sherlock intones, ignoring his host's outstretched hand. "I've no interest whatsoever, actually." A pause as he looks around. "Dover, off the English Channel."

"Interesting," Sebastian raises an eyebrow, lowering his hand. "How-"

With a wave of his arm, Sherlock encompasses the surrounding area. "These are the famed "White Cliffs of Dover", that's fairly obvious, and the strange bedfellow I shared my resting place with means that we are near Crab Bay….this then, must be where the cliffs fell recently."

"For someone who doesn't read the papers, you are very knowledgeable on current events." The peculiar man, Sebastian, makes himself comfortable again on his stone, gazing with intent at Sherlock.

"We do own a telly. And I don't read the papers, but I look at them," – truth, for Sherlock never cares to read much of the paper unless it related to crimes or other matters that interest him. On a typical day, he would read the headlines, deduce the rest of the story, and wait for John to bring up anything that the good doctor thought he might have missed, which of course was nothing of import. He only paused on stories of death, double-dealings, arson, the non-boring ones…Something tugs at his mind, but will not come so instead, eyes gaining Laurent's, he queries, "Strange place for a meeting, I should think. Not to mention –" he gestures at Sebastian's shoes, expensive Louis Vuittons, and feels something else starting to rouse, "-you seem ill-suited to this sort of venue."

"Do I?" Sebastian asks, an accent leaking in over native British tongue. French. "Pity, I always thought these very cliffs brought out the best of my complexion." He stokes the fire again with one hand but this time Sherlock sees neither the action nor what was used to perform it. Instead, he is watching the machinations of the movement. He sees the arm stretch out, the wrist flick and swish – all much too fast. He sees the fire swirl up in plumes of red and gold and brilliant orange. And he sees the luminescent flames cast against the other man's skin, which swallows the light in its shadow as though the darkness itself is alive.

_Odd_, Sherlock wonders. _Why does light bend itself from him? How are his movements so quick? _

"Clever," Sebastian answers with a placating smile and a soft chuckle. When he speaks next, however, the words come not from his mouth but rather straight from his mind. "But for all your observations, you seem to have missed one very important detail."

Sherlock starts. His eyes pass from Sebastian's face, now a mask of pleasantries over some darker interior, to the shoes. Alligator leather on linoleum floors. A spatter of blood. A laugh. Memories come flooding back – lying on the laboratory's floor, the pain, the fear – and that's when he realizes.

He touches his chest.

But his heartbeat isn't there.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<em>:<em> **_Greetings everyone! Wow, it has been a very long time. My sincerest apologies. But I am happy to announce first of all that I will NOT be abandoning this story, and secondly that as of today, I am officially a full-time writer! This means that DwtD will have weekly updates - and I've designated Monday as its release day. Hope you enjoy and thank you ever so much for being patient!_


	5. Chapter IV

**Dance With The Devil  
><strong>

**A Sherlock Fanfiction By Brigadier Erin Lightning**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter IV<strong>

_"Anger and agony are better than misery,  
>Trust me, I've got a plan<br>When the lights go off you'll understand"  
><em>

- Three Day's Grace "_Pain_"_  
><em>

* * *

><p>It isn't often that someone gets the better of Sherlock Holmes. He closes his eyes, letting the situation sink in. When he opens them again, they are clear and sharp and his face is a mask concealing all emotion. "So then," he says. "What would you have of me?"<p>

Sebastian's eyes lock on Sherlock's. A heat seems to emanate from them, something fierce and primal fed by dark desires. "You fascinate me, Holmes. Most men would have screamed, run, fainted dead away even – not you. But then, what else should I expect from a man descended from a line that has served as this country's right hand going back generations?" He rises and advances upon the consulting detective with slow, meditated steps, a lion stalking a lamb. "So noble, so righteous….You know, I didn't think men like you existed except in story books." A slender finger traces the curve of Sherlock's cheekbone. "Yet here you are."

Sherlock stiffens, but his gaze never falters. "Come now, I hardly think it necessary to bring me all the way out here just to compliment me."

"On the contrary, I think it is you who should be praising me - your maker." He pulls away from Sherlock, his expression sour. "Oh, don't look at me like that - you who are not even worthy to gaze upon my countenance. _Kneel_." The word resounds in Sherlock's head, a sharp command that buckles his knees and brings him forcibly to the ground, his hands pressing into the sand. His teeth grit and he fights against that invisible pull, but to no avail. Sebastian smiles. "There, isn't that better?" His lips are just an inch away from Sherlock's ear. "What would I have of you? Why, all of your body and soul. And let's not forget that brilliant mind of yours too. I want to watch you dance; I want to see you give into temptation, to throw away your pathetic morals because, let's face it, they are worthless in this corrupt society and we all abandon them eventually. I would make you the perfect vampire, one worthy of my blood."

Sherlock can't help the grimace of a smile from playing across his lips. "Ah."

Sebastian grabs his captive's chin in his hand and forces it up. "Ah? Ah what?"

Sherlock gazes upon him with eyes that can see everything. "Very theatrical, I must admit, though you must be joking if you think little show of force is going to intimidate me. When I first saw you, I assumed by your stature and your dress that you were a man who possessed great power. But the truth is that your power possesses you and you in turn are consumed by the need for more power. Vicious cycle, that."

Sebastian's fangs slide out from his lips and a bestial snarl follows in their wake, his fingers squeezing Sherlock's face with a vice grip. His eyes narrow to slits. "I have more power than you can even fathom. I could turn you to dust with a touch. You live now because I choose to let you live. Don't ever forget that." Sherlock doesn't flinch. Just as quickly as it changed, Sebastian's body relaxes, his hand letting go of Sherlock in favor of straightening his suit jacket. He runs his fingers back through his hair. The fangs retract. "How rude of me. I apologize. I didn't bring you out here to harm you; rather, I did so to teach you, to impart upon you what my master taught me, that is if you are willing to learn."

The invisible grip on Sherlock's body disappears, but he does not relax. "And if I refuse?"

"That would not be in your best interest, I'm afraid," Sebastian replies, though he seems to have already lost interest in his companion; instead, he stares wistfully out across the sea. Sherlock doesn't mind; his eyes furtively cast across the beach, taking stock of his surroundings.

The elder vampire's temperament is, to say the least, unsettling, borderline schizophrenic almost, and with each mood swing, Sherlock can't help but question just how much control the man has over the monster within him. It is a vital observation. If this truly is to be his lot, Sherlock knows he must guard against such behaviors himself, lest he further endanger his friends.

_John…._

_No_, he thinks. _It's too late for that. I am already a threat_. He feels a tug at his breast as it finally becomes clear. _I can't go back to him. To any of them. It's for their protection._

"….across this sea. I grew up there, you know, over four hundred years ago. But c'est la vie, what is time to one of our kind?" Sebastian's voice drifts back to Sherlock's ears; good, the narcissist has gone on with his one-sided conversation, oblivious to Sherlock's thoughts. "Just think, all those ordinary people, putting on their nightcaps, heading to bed. They don't know that there are things, dangerous things – things like you and me – lurking just outside of their windows, harbingers of death waiting in the shadows."

Sebastian turns around and glares down at Holmes. "I'm certain I don't have to explain the daylight thing or the fact that we drink blood – you've already experienced all that for yourself, it seems. But I do wonder," he says, and Sherlock can see a bit of the demon's nature sneaking back into his eyes, "Have you ever killed someone before, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's answer is immediate. "No," he says. _But I've seen many people die because of me_.

"Interesting. And do you have the conviction to kill?"

"If I must to survive."

"You are _un vampire_. Every day we must kill to survive," Sebastian's voice cuts like a knife. "So you had better get very good at it very fast."

"As if there were no other means. Blood banks?"

"You may if you like. But you've already caught your first scent of the real thing – warm, fresh, straight from the source," Sebastian's voice drips with desire. Sherlock feels his own fangs pricking at his lip. John. The single drop of crimson blood on the carpet. Longing courses through him. He fights it off, forces his fangs back, but Sebastian is already laughing. "You can drink the refrigerated stuff, warm it up even, but it'll never be the same. And while you fool yourself into thinking you're "safe", with every touch, every look, you get one step closer to unleashing the monster you really are on the people around you because of it."

Sherlock considers this even as he thinks of alternatives. He has no need to ask about animal blood, this he has already inferred the results of from his inspections at the lab. While his blood has metamorphosed to a degree, it still retains the qualities and genetic consistency of human blood, just more thoroughly integrated. Animal blood would be treated as hostile and invasive by his body, causing all manner of nasty consequences; at best, it might sustain him, but his body would absorb/destroy it at twice the rate of blood received from a suitable human substitute.

"No, no, that will never do," Sebastian shakes his head, picking up on Sherlock's thoughts. "Men like us, Sherlock, we are predators. Our speed, our strength – unmatched. We cannot be killed by mortal wounds and we will never fall to disease or old age. We were not meant to quiver in the shadows picking off vermin and barely sustaining ourselves. You must understand – this is our legacy, this is what we are. We were made to rule, to bask in the luxuries of life, to sip from the fount-"

"Perhaps you sip too freely," Sherlock says. "I found your trail of death. Fancy those of superior birth, do you? Don't answer that – of course you do. Six high-ranking men of state found dead in two weeks' time, all of them stripped body and home of all their worldly possessions. Not very low-profile I must say. It's amazing the Yard didn't find you before I did."

Sebastian smirks at the mention of his crimes. He holds his head higher with pride. "It wouldn't matter if they did. I can be very persuasive."

"I wonder," Sherlock starts. "What do you do with all that money, all those stolen goods?"

Sebastian's lip curls upward. "I do whatever I want, as is my right."

Sherlock does not stand, but the intensity in his voice rises. "You kill because you enjoy it. You steal because you can. You think yourself a God and play with the lives of others to amuse yourself because no one will stop you. Have I missed anything?"

"Why do you have to be so difficult?" The other vampire sighs. He sounds almost disappointed. "Come, these are fundamentals! I'm only asking you to be true to your nature, a nature that I graciously bestowed upon you I might add."

"Kill innocent people to feed a serial murderer's own aggrandizement? Hm, sorry, no."

Sebastian advances on him. Each step breeds more rage into his features. "You really don't want to do this."

"You're right. I don't," Sherlock replies coolly. Sebastian relaxes his shoulders slightly, but Sherlock's eyes meet his and a soft white light seems to burn from their irises. "You may have made me a monster, but I will never be anything like you."

A wicked smile. "Then I will just have to unmake you."

Time slows. Sherlock can see Sebastian's muscles stretch taut as he raises his arm to deliver a blow, but the consulting detective is ready. Faster than he had thought possible, his hand thrusts a flurry of sand into his opponent's eyes. Sebastian's raised hand goes to his face with an anguished cry; this is just the opening Sherlock needs. His legs, gathered under him, propel him forward. A sharp pain as his shoulder collides with Sebastian's chest, every ounce of strength and weight in his body slamming against the vampire, and with amazing results. Sebastian's feet fly out from under him, sending the furious blond hurtling into the air a good six feet from the ground.

Sherlock's mind quickly sets to work, planning the next stage of his attack. If Sebastian lands in the water, he'll be weighted down which will put his enemy at a disadvantage. He knows he has little hope of defeating this villain, but if he can just incapacitate him, that may be enough. But how to do it? Sherlock has little idea of what vampires are capable of, other than what he's read (most of which he's deleted since it seemed of little import; he's cursing that now) and the vague allusions his sire has given him.

Of all the possibilities racing through Holmes' mind, he isn't expecting what happens next. A shadow passes across Sebastian's body while he is still mid-air. Then his suit jacket, almost as if it were alive, rips itself backwards and outward, stretching up into the sky like a pair nightmarish wings. They beat. Any chance Sherlock has fades with the flame that appears in his sire's palm.

And it is at this precise moment that the thought strikes Sherlock that, just this once, he might be out of his depth.

The detective leaps out of the way, but it is too little, too late. A searing pain encompasses him and he bites back a scream. He smells burning flesh. Then a hand grabs his face and forces it to the sand. The flames are gone, but the agony remains.

Sebastian's breath on his neck. Sherlock expects fangs. He expects death. Instead, a hissing voice by his ear delivers something far worse. "Sherlock Holmes, you _will_ kill. You _will_ become a true vampire and you _will_ do it before tomorrow night. Or I will take away from you the one person you care about."

Sherlock refuses to think about that person, hopes that it's a bluff.

A snarl. "Don't be a fool. I know you, Holmes. From the moment I sank my fangs into you, you became mine. Your thoughts, your experiences, everything. I know about John Watson. And I know you would do anything to protect him. You have twenty-four hours. Give into your nature, or I will end him." The weight lifts from Sherlock's head, but he is weak from the pain and it is all he can do to keep from falling face-first onto the shore.

Sebastian straightens his jacket, which hardly looks now as if it could have been anything more than a simple suit jacket. The demonic fury is fading, but the voice that speaks is cold and threatening enough regardless. "I may have made you more than a man, but do not mistake us for equals. We are leagues apart." A pause. "If you will not learn from me of your own accord, then I will drive you to despair and I will savor the moment you come crawling back to me, begging for my guidance."

"If you so much as lay a finger on him," Sherlock growls through cracked lips and the metallic taste of blood, "I will make sure that my face will be the last thing you ever see." Something stirs in the air around Sherlock – something that sizzles with latent power, like a current running through an electric socket. The feeling of it is warm, inviting almost. He tries to focus on it, but the rush of wingbeats draws his attention away and he looks up feebly to see Sebastian lifting off with those same grotesque wings.

The wind laughs at him. '_Dance for me, detective.'_

As the shadow of the departing vampire passes over it, the moon begins its descent from the night sky and Sherlock Holmes is left alone on the blackened beach.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I lied. :( I sat down at my desk with my little Batman figure (Are you psyched for TDKR? Because I have trilogy IMAX tickets. Heck yeah) and my lava lamp on Friday, pulled up a word document and typed the heading for DwtD on it...then proceeded to write a Tony/Loki fiction. So for that I apologize. And I apologize that this is late - but if it's any consolation, I've spent the last 28 hours straight working on this update for several reasons. _

_As some of you may have been keen enough to notice, I've changed the tense of the whole narrative to 3rd person present instead of 3rd person past because I feel that it is more intimate and suspenseful this way. _

_Secondly, Sherlock and our antagonist, Sebastian, are like water and oil and it is rather tedious writing scenes with them together. Sherlock is a fairly antisocial person, whereas (if you can't already tell by his long tirades) Sebastian loves attention. Sherlock has principles, even though sometimes (Who doesn't remember the cabby? And throwing that guy out of his window?) he forgets to bring his conscience to work; Sebastian on the other hand is (in Avengers terms) a real bag of cats - he has lived for over 400 years by leeching off of society, by killing and stealing and breaking every law in the book. And he thinks that sort of behavior is his entitlement for reasons we'll get into later. So obviously the two don't quite get along.  
><em>

_And as for Sebastian's awesome vampire powers, let me take a minute (before I get 100 comments complaining that vampires can't do that, etc. etc.) to explain that I am reinventing vampires for the purpose of this fanfiction. I'm not just going to steal Anne Rice's rules for them, or Twilight's, or anyone else's. Because I want Sherlock to be truly out of his element here. I want him to be able to look at folklore and legend and still not have all the answers. I want him to have to discover how and why they are capable of these feats. It's for science. _

__But I don't want to give away too much right now. Suffice it to say you'll have all the answers when the time is right, though I welcome speculation. :3_  
><em>

_And without further ado, until next Monday, cheerio!  
><em>


	6. Chapter V

**Dance With The Devil  
><strong>

**A Sherlock Fanfiction By Brigadier Erin Lightning**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter V<br>**

_"You, you're always holding onto stars  
>I think they're better from afar<br>Because no one is gonna save us"  
><em>

- Fun. "_Stars_"_  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>'You have twenty four hours. Give into your nature. Or I will end him.'<em>

Sherlock's hand slips on the stony cliffside, its jagged edge sinking into his palm as he catches himself. The sticky feeling of blood courses over his fingers. He has to hurry. The moon hovers just above the horizon's edge; it must be nearing dawn and he knows full well that if he remains here, the sun will rise and see to the end of him within a matter of minutes. And John will die.

_John…_

He's already worked out the details. If he can just get to Dover before the sun rises, then he will only have eighty miles to travel in order to return to London. By cab, that would be roughly two hours' journey. He can hide away the day somewhere dark and cool, make the trip by night, and arrive in London with enough time to find John and get him somewhere safe. Failing that, he considers the alternative – he could find someone, perhaps someone who didn't deserve life – a criminal, a murderer, perhaps – and he could sate his ever-growing hunger, which even now gnaws at his very being with its razor-sharp pangs. But who is he to decide who deserves life? And what guarantee that John would be spared? No, no, the idea is preposterous.

He finds a foothold and presses onward. He's about halfway up the cliff face now. He can see the edge looming above him in the lightening sky. Hope swells in his breast. And then the stone gives way beneath him. His hands are ripped from the chalky cliff face as his feet slide away on the crumbling stone. He reaches out and manages to grasp a ledge. His body slams against the stone. He grits his teeth.

Sherlock Holmes has always been an athletic individual, but even with the newfound strength brought on by his transformation, he is growing tired. His chest is covered in pocked burn marks from his fight with Sebastian. His hands are laced with the ghostly lines of cuts healed over. His breathing is ragged. His muscles are exhausted. And he is growing hungrier by the second. He looks back at the sky. He can't afford to fall now. His hand tenses on its hold and with all the strength left in him, he tries to pull himself back up. But the composition of the cliff face has been weakened by its recent structural damage. The stone cracks.

A blinding light erupts around him. At first, Sherlock fears that the sun has risen and he braces himself for the pain. Then a miraculous thing happens. The light engulfs him - a thousand wings of soft white wrapping him in their warm glow as he is lowered gently to the ground. His feet touch first and the warmth recedes, the light dissipating, all except for a single beacon that seems far away, out across the murky sea, coming closer by the second. Sherlock's mind is reeling with questions, but for the moment he squints his eyes against the approaching light. A fishing boat!

The Dover Sole, no doubt named for the most popular commercial fish available just off the shores of the city that bears the same name, takes but a few minutes to reach him. Sherlock swims out to meet it and one of its two occupants leans over the rail to lend him a gnarled hand and help him aboard. A towel is waiting for him and he takes it, absently using it to dry off, despite the fact that he feels no chill from his short excursion in the freezing water.

"What're you doing way out here, lad? It was lucky you sent up that flare when you did, else we'd never have seen you," the elder of the two remarks as he glances skeptically at Sherlock's state of dishevelment. The fishermen bear a striking resemblance to one another – the same faded hazel eyes, coarse brown locks, hard jawline. He infers that they are related, most likely a father and son fishing team up before dawn in the hopes of getting the most profitable locale.

Sherlock's body aches with hunger. He averts his eyes. "Flare," he replies, thoughtfully. They must have seen the same light he had. "Yes, that was certainly lucky."

"Oi, dad," the younger man says, "What're we going to do about him? The ridge is still two miles out; if we turn round, we'll lose out on a days' catch!" He gestures at the water. "Pickings are slim as it is this late in the season."

The older man scratches his beard, but before he can answer, Sherlock fixes him with an authoritative stare. "Don't bother; I shall require use of your hold and nothing more until you dock." The boat was definitely a fortunate occurrence. The name tells Sherlock that it is based in Dover, which means at sunset it will return to dock there. The hold of such a boat will be air tight and dark, a perfect place to hide away for the day.

The son laughs. "You willin' to pay?"

But the father simply holds up a hand to silence his offspring and nods his head, almost as if in a trance. Sherlock's eyebrow raises quizzically. "Right this way," the man says, and without another word, he leads the detective down below deck into the cool darkness below.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The static of the radio jostles Watson awake. "Anything yet?"

Lestrade shakes his head. "I have everyone I can spare out looking, but there's been no word yet." The detective takes stock of his friend, who sits rigidly in a creaking desk chair beside him, eyes blood shot and rimmed with dark circles, cheeks rough with 5-o'clock shadow. He's fairly certain he himself doesn't look much better. They've been burning their candles at both ends since Sherlock's disappearance the night before. "Are you sure you shouldn't be at Baker Street in case he returns?"

Watson glances at his phone. "He won't. Whatever Sherlock is doing right now, he doesn't want me involved."

"Perhaps he has a good reason?" Lestrade asks. He sorts through the pile of paperwork between them – accounts of the fire, witness statements, freshly printed newspaper articles. "Look, I'm only doing this as a favor to you. Protocol states that we aren't allowed to file a missing person's report for at least three days. And God knows it's a breach for me to have so many of the Yard out looking."

"I don't bloody care about his reasons," Watson growls, pushing himself out of the chair in agitation. He stares out the window, watching as the last few rays of sunlight gleam golden on the horizon. "I understand what you're doing, and I appreciate it, but if something happens to him, I…" He trails off, feeling small and lost. And angry. The image of Sherlock closing the door behind him, Watson's voice caught in his throat with fear, plays back in his mind. Why had he let Sherlock go off on his own! He hates himself for it – for knowing there was something wrong and still letting Holmes walk right out of his life. _'Are you out there, Sherlock?'_ he wonders, then immediately corrects himself. Of course Sherlock is out there - if he wasn't, John would _know_.

John swallows down the fury. "And Mycroft?" he asks.

"Nothing from him yet, not since he got the papers to run the article, but you know how busy he gets," Lestrade sighs. He checks off another neighborhood on the map as an all-clear fizzles through the speaker beside him. Half of London down and still no sign of the detective. He knows Sherlock has been wont to run off on his own, knows that he can handle himself in most situations, but this time something isn't quite right. "You said he was sick?"

"Yes," Watson fidgets, his eyes hardening as he gazes down at the last few passerby in the twilight. A powdery snow falls.

"From the wound he got chasing that serial killer?" Lestrade presses.

"Right," Watson answers. His gaze catches on a single man just outside of the Yard. He is tall and lanky and wearing a long coat. Sherlock's coat. His heart catches in his breast. He leans so close his nose is nearly pressed against the glass. But it is not Sherlock – this man is more thin, more lean, almost like a shadow. And blonde.

Lestrade drums his finger absently on the desk as he contemplates an article on his laptop dated a few weeks back. The title reads "Mysterious "Vampire" Killer Strikes Again!". "The serial killer who sucked all of the blood out of his victims and who bit – _bit_ – Sherlock Holmes just before he went missing?" His eyes fix on Watson. "Is there something I should know, Doctor?"

Almost as if he senses someone watching him, the man below looks upward. His crimson eyes meet Watson's and the feeling is both frightening and surreal. "I've got to go," John mutters, though it feels like someone else is saying the words.

From the street, Sebastian Laurent watches the ex-army doctor as he turns to leave the Yard. A wicked smile plays across his lips.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock wakes with a start. Burned into his mind, almost as if he lived it himself, is the image of John at the window. It takes him only a moment to realize that it is something he is seeing through Sebastian's eyes. Fear grips him, sending shivers down his spine. He closes his eyes, forces himself to be still. He is running out of time.

Almost as if to make sure he knows how little he's got left, the door to the hold opens and the crisp night air billows in. The father, wrapped tight in several layers of jackets, steps in. Everything goes still. Red flashes before Sherlock's eyes. The hunger takes him, ravenous, clawing at his insides, howling in his mind. It is the worst feeling he can ever imagined, like being torn apart from within. The scent of blood is heavy in the air, and when he looks at the fisherman, he can see each vein that traverses his skin pumping with it. He feels his fangs sliding out and it occurs to him that it would be so easy to relent, to feed off of this man, to take his life and thereby protect Watson's. But would it? Would it protect him from the volatile killer who has him in his sights?

He hears the younger man's voice in the background. He can't do it; won't. Though Sherlock has never been one to understand compassion, he has a strong moral code and knows that there are things he can never allow himself to do. One of these things is to take an innocent life, for if he does this he becomes no better than the monsters he has spent his life outwitting. He forces the fangs back in.

"We've come into port, you can be on your way when you're ready," the father says. He tosses something at Sherlock, who catches it – a clean pair of trousers and a shirt. They're a little too large for him, so he sets them down on a barrel beside the coil of rope upon which he had been sleeping; as if this is a time to concern himself with dress anyway. "Call a cab, would you?" he asks, still fighting to hold back the demon inside of him that yearns for the taste of this unsuspecting man's blood. The father retreats. Sherlock closes his eyes and wills himself to be with Sebastian and John again.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I know where he is," Sebastian's tone is too calm, too calculated. His voice flows like water trickling across ice and it is no less cold. "Sherlock Holmes. I can take you to him."

"How do you know where he is? Is he all right?" John's arms are wrapped tight around himself; his jacket provides little protection against the cold. His eyebrows knit together; he can tell that something about this man is…off. "That," he points at Sebastian's coat, "-that is his coat. How did you get it?"

"This shabby old thing? No, it's not, it's my coat," Sebastian looks at the coat with disdain, then catches John's eyes. There is unmistakable evil in the vampires' eyes.

John, unable to stop himself, nods his head. Again, the words come tumbling out of his mouth but he isn't the one saying them. "No, I suppose it's not."

Sebastian smiles. His hand reaches up and dusts some of the freshly fallen snow from John's hair. "That's better. Shall we take a walk, then?" Sebastian's eyes meet his and it is impossible for John not to comply.

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"Cab's here," the fisherman is in the doorway again. Sherlock pushes himself up to his feet. There is ice in his veins - the dread of what's about to happen – but he nods. As he passes the man, who is a full head shorter than him, he pauses. "If you are ever in London, pay me a visit. The address is 221 B Baker Street. I would see you paid for your assistance." And then he is gone, stalking across the deck to where the cab waits not far away in the street, leaving the man bewildered on the hold stairs.

Sherlock climbs into the cab. "I'll be heading for London."

"Oi, I ain't going all the way out to London – you need yourself a train," the cab driver remarks, eyeing Sherlock with disdain. "Or a private shuttle."

"Money is of no consequence."

"Really?" The cabbie says. He leans back over the chair. He is a rotund man who reeks of smoke and liquor. "Because, no offense, but you don't look like you've got much and I got a wife and kids at home to feed."

"As well as an addiction," Sherlock snaps, irritated. He can feel the hunger again; he tries to swallow it back, tries to remain focused. He doesn't have time for this. He sees Sebastian's hand on John's head; something about the touch itself seems so perverted, so wrong. It stirs an anger in Sherlock that he did not know he possessed.

"Now wait just a minute-" The man's face turns red and Sherlock can hear the rage mounting in his voice.

_'I can be very persuasive.'_ Sebastian's voice. Sherlock thinks of Sebastian, controlling John's thoughts and actions with a single phrase or suggestion, of how Sherlock himself had done so – unknowingly at the time – earlier with the fisherman. He draws upon that same easy tone and looks the cabbie hard in the eyes.

"I need to get to London – now – and you will take me there."

The cabbie blinks. The color in his cheeks pales. "London, yes…." He mutters, his voice hollow.

Sherlock watches as the cab driver turns around and the cab down the darkened street. The detective leans back in his seat, closes his eyes. This is a great and terrible power that he has been given.

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"Now what, I wonder," Sebastian asks, his eyes gazing John up and down as he paces around him, "does he see in you?"

"Where are we?" John asks. He blinks as if waking from a dream. He is seated on a lounge chair in a hall of polished marble floors and gilded walls, of expensive paintings and exotic plants.

"Oh, do you not recognize it?" Sebastian smirks. "I believe, good doctor – or should I say, ex-doctor – that this is the very place where we first met, the home of Italian business mogul Biagio Toselli. Ah, what great taste the man had in suits. Pity he had such poor taste in art." He runs a finger across a painting, grimaces. "Ezekiel's Vision, by Sanzio – a masterpiece. Alas, if it weren't based on a lie; but what borne of man is not? C'est la vie." The painting leaps into flame at his touch. The face of God melting away strikes Watson as particularly grotesque, and yet he cannot look away.

Suddenly, it all becomes clear. Ash falls to the floor. John is on his feet before the last of it comes to rest, his eyes intense on Sebastian's. "You. You were the one at Bart's."

"Guilty as charged," Sebastian smirks. "But no need to stand on my account." His gaze buckles John's knees. Watson fights against it, but finds himself back in the chair. He struggles, but cannot move his limbs.

When he realizes it is useless, John holds still, though his eyes are still blazing with fury. His words are cut and even. "Where is he? What have you done to him?"

Sebastian looks down at John as if he were nothing more than a spider, something he could crush easily beneath his boot. "He will be along, I am sure. After all, he wouldn't want anything to happen to you, now would he?"

When John says nothing, Sebastian stalks over toward him. He looks down upon John's face, but Watson averts his eyes. Sebastian tilts the doctor's chin up so he can look into them. "What I want to know is why are you so important to him? You are boring – you are ordinary. You live off of his money and can't keep a job for more than a few weeks. You're not particularly handsome, even. Ah-" His eyes light up, as if reading something off of John's expression, "-but you are loyal, aren't you? I can read nothing about him in your thoughts – you're trying to keep me from those memories. No matter," And his eyes flash a vibrant, unworldly red. John hisses in pain, grits his teeth against it, but the memories are torn from him as easily as if he had been thinking them all along.

Pure bliss passes across Sebastian's face as his mind is flooded with images, with things that John has seen and remembered, the little things that Sherlock would never retain himself – moments of compassion, a testament to a great man's humanity. He smiles. "So you would be the sheathe to his sword? You would protect him from himself?" A glint of fang. "And what if it's too late?"

The weight in John's pocket. The gun. He never leaves home without it. "I'll kill you," he replies without hesitation.

"Very brave." Sebastian catches John's eyes darting toward the gun. "I'd like to see you try." He glances at the clock; it is eight now. He had planned to give Sherlock until midnight, but the fact that the detective hasn't done anything yet has started to get on the vampire's nerves. He raises a hand and swipes it at the air in front of him. The invisible hold on Watson vanishes.

"Shall we?" Sebastian opens his mouth to ask, but John is already on his feet. Surprise in the vampire's eyes. The gunshot echoes, but the bullet lands with a ringing clink on the marble. Sebastian dodges so quickly the human eye cannot even comprehend his movement. He knocks the gun from John's hand and it slides across the floor uselessly. Sebastian's hand clenches around his attackers' neck and he lifts him up into the air. John kicks at him, but his blows are no more painful than a mosquito bite would be to a lion.

Panic fills John's eyes. He can't breathe. He closes his eyes, thinks of Sherlock.

Sebastian throws John to the ground. His expression is sour. "Enough," he growls. But still John struggles to get to his feet. His hand grasps for the pistol, just out of his reach. Sebastian kicks it further away. He kneels, grabs the front of John's shirt, and pulls the doctor up so that their faces are only inches away. This close, John can see the closing wound on the vampire's shoulder. The bullet hit!

Sebastian's eyes narrow. His fangs slide out and he leans in. "You are loyal," he snaps, "But so is a dog. I'm sure Sherlock will forgive me a little taste."

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Time has run out. Sherlock opens his eyes. His breathing is heavy.

"You alright back there?" The cabbie asks. "Don't you have a heart attack or something in my cab."

"Pull over," Sherlock commands, his voice strained. The cabbie complies. Once they're on the side of the road, he leans back over the seat and looks at Sherlock with eyes that seem to be clearing of some kind of haze. Something seems to register in the driver's mind. He turns back to the passenger seat and examines the daily news lying across it. "I thought you looked familiar. Aren't you Sherlock Holmes, that – what do you call it – consulting detective what went missing?"

"You said you had children," Sherlock's voice is very soft.

"Oh sure," the cabbie replies, as if he had never been on his original train of thought. "Two boys, one's five, the other's two."

"And a wife?"

"Going on six years now."

The consulting detective stares deep into the man's eyes, deep into his soul. He can see the wife, a woman of no substantial beauty, yelling at her husband. He can see the children, one in her arms crying, the other hiding behind a doorway. He can see the cab driver pulling out a bottle of liquor once she's left the room. This is no happy family, that is plain to see. The father's job barely brings in enough to put food on the table, but he squanders it for drink. But then who is Sherlock to say he wouldn't be missed? And if not this, then what choice does he have?

But one thing is certain.

"I have to save John," Sherlock says. The cabbie looks at him, confused.

Then Sherlock's fangs slide out.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong> So, I am just getting over having been very ill for the past few weeks. I've been working on getting my fanfictions back on track, starting with the most popular, but I'm also in the process of moving too, so it's taken a while. As recompense, I bring you Chapter 5, which is about twice the length of a normal chapter. Enjoy! Updates heretofore will return to their Monday weekly schedule; sorry for the delay!_


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